


Harry Potter and the History of Magic

by saltkettle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2018-03-31 09:17:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3972496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltkettle/pseuds/saltkettle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Third Year. Harry Potter runs away. He is intercepted almost immediately by Cornelius Fudge. What if a little quirk of magic ability had prevented that meeting? What if Harry spent the summer before third year thinking he was a criminal on the run?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Harry Gets Into A Spot Of Trouble But The Knight Bus Is Here To Save The Day

After blowing up his Aunt Marge, Harry Potter was pretty sure he had nothing left to lose. Gathering up his meagre belongings from his cupboard under the stairs and where they had be strewn about his bedroom, he had little time to think of what he could do next. After his first warning the year before when Dobby the house elf had magicked a pudding on top of one of Uncle Vernon’s client’s wife’s head, he had been warned that his next misstep would result in his expulsion from Hogwart’s school of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Still, he thought as he retrieved his homework and birthday presents from where they were hidden under a loose floorboard, even if he couldn’t go back to Hogwarts anymore, there had to be something for him to do that wasn’t here. If he couldn’t  do magic anymore, at the very least he could choose to go not do magic as far away from the Dursley’s and number four as possible. Hagrid had been expelled his third year, and while groundskeeping wouldn’t be Harry’s first choice in professions, at least Hagrid got to stay at Hogwarts.

By the time he was out the door, dodging Uncle Vernon’s cries for him to ‘Put her back!’ Harry had a half formulated plan. He would write to Dumbledore and ask to be put on as the assistant groundskeeper. His only problem was that he had sent Hedwig away for the duration of Marge’s stay, so getting that letter out might be somewhat of a problem. He had told her that she needed to be gone for a week, and it had only been two days since Marge’s arrival. Two days of her had been enough to do what the entire horrible summer at the Dursley’s had been unable to cause.

Dragging his heavy trunk behind him down Magnolia Crescent quickly used up most of the angry adrenaline that his running away had provided, and soon he was too tired to continue marching angrily into the darkness of the cool summer night without any idea where he was actually going. He had no idea how to get to Hogwarts from here, or really anywhere. Surry wasn’t exactly the epicenter of magical activity after all. Instead of wasting more energy on a fruitless task, Harry dropped his trunk on the pavement and sat down on it heavily, blowing his sweaty fringe out of his eyes and forcefully rubbing his face with the palms of his hands.

Never before had he blown up at Aunt Marge. Her insinuations, or rather, bold accusations of his parents as well as his personal habits had never managed to get such a rise out of him. He wasn’t sure if being aware of his magic made it more likely to do his bidding, and thus subjected him to more embarrassing bouts of accidental magic, or if the mere fact of finally knowing that his parents were good and had loved him had tied them more closely with his emotional state, making the defamation of their character more likely to cause his own angry outburst.

As he was thinking about these things, a sudden movement distracted Harry from his wallowing and attracted his gaze to a large section of shrubbery across the street. Without a thought, Harry whipped out his wand. He was already going to be expelled for the magic back at number four; it wasn’t like he could get more expelled by defending himself.

Before he could speak any of the spells that weren’t coming to his mind, a huge triple decker bus interrupted his line of sight to the dark figure lurking across the way., its sudden arrival knocking Harry to the ground.

“Hello, my name is Stan Shunpike, welcome to the Knight Bus, transportation for any stranded witch or wizard.” The spotty young man had gotten out before he had noticed that there was no one standing, waiting for the bus. He scanned the street, right to left, before finally looking down to where Harry was lying. “Whachoo doin’ on the ground then?” he blurted out, professional demeanor forgotten.

“I fell,” Harry said, obviously.

“Whad ya do that for?” Stan seemed genuinely curious, as if lying on the ground and calling public transportation was some new fad that he didn’t want to miss.

“Well I didn’t do it on purpose,” Harry grumbled. He struggled to his feet, tripping a bit over his hand-me-down trousers which had gotten twisted over his too-big-trainers. Stan didn’t deign to help him, which led to a bit of an awkward silence as Harry got himself sorted and Stan just stood there watching. When Harry was finally vertical and had a handle on his belongings, Stan spoke again.

“It’s 11 sickles for a ride anywhere you want to go, on land of course, we don’t do underwater, and 15 sickles for a hot chocolate and a toothbrush.” Harry followed him onto the bus, taking in the mismatched beds placed haphazardly across the Bus. It was unlike any public transport Harry had ever taken, but then, Harry had very little experience with wizard forms of transportation.

“Woss yer name anyway?” Stan once again broke from his rehearsed script to inquire after the strange little wizard in the dumpy muggle clothes.

“Neville,” Harry blurted, “Just Neville.” He had almost been about to attach a very long last name to his lie, but before he could Harry realized that he did not actually know who knew whom in the Wizarding World. For all he knew, Stan could be the real Neville’s cousin, and frequently popped ‘round for tea.

“Well then, young Neville, come on in.” With that invitation, Harry hauled his trunk up the steps into the bright purple, triple decker bus. Seating himself on one of the many mismatched beds, he fished some wizarding money out of his trunk, and handed it to Stan. Stan received payment absentmindedly, as he was already resuming a conversation with the driver, Ernie, an elderly old man with thick glasses.

Harry lay back on the bed, letting the conversation wash over him, and allowed a himself a moment of relief before BANG! The bus lurched into a ridiculous speed, nearly throwing Harry from the comfortable bed. He managed to hook one of his feet over the edge, all thoughts leaving him as he clung for his life.

They stopped somewhere in Wales to let a witch off, and the next time they started, Harry had started to get the hang of things. He was still unable to focus on anything other than keeping his dinner inside of his stomach until he noticed a rather familiar face on Stan’s open copy of the Daily Prophet.

“I’ve seen him,” Harry managed, over the roiling of his belly. “He’s all over the muggle news.”

“Course he was,” Stan scoffed. “Where you been Neville?” He extracted the section that had captured Harry’s attention and casually handed it over. “Should read more papers, you should.”

Harry carelessly thanked him, hooking one arm around the brass bed post. His mind was already on the man in the paper.

_BLACK STILL AT LARGE_

_Sirius Black, possibly the most infamous prisoner ever to be held in Azkaban fortress, is still eluding capture, the Ministry of Magic confirmed today._

_“We are doing all we can to recapture Black,” said the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, this morning, “and we beg the magical community to remain calm.”_

_Fudge has been criticized by some members of the International Federation of Warlocks for informing the Muggle Prime Minister of the crisis._

_“Well, really, I had to, don’t you know,” said an irritable Fudge. “Black is mad. He’s a danger to anyone who crosses him, magic or Muggle. I have the Prime Minister’s assurance that he will not breathe a word of Black’s true identity to anyone. And let’s face it — who’d believe him if he did?”_

_While Muggles have been told that Black is carrying a gun (a kind of metal wand that Muggles  use to kill each other), the magical community lives in fear of a massacre like that of twelve years ago, when Black murdered thirteen people with a single curse._ [1] 

Harry gasped in a large breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The man in the picture looked like he belonged in some sort of gothic horror story. His long, dark hair was lank and matted, his eyes sunken and mad looking. His skin was pale and waxy, and his smile was the stuff of nightmares. Harry shuddered.

“E’s mad,” Stan confirmed, as if reading Harry’s thoughts. “Spent the last twelve years in Azkaban, ‘swat happens to everyone.”

“What’s Azkaban?” Harry wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“Wizard Prison. Nasty place. Wot’s where they put anyone on the wrong side of the MLE.”

“So, it’s just a jail?”

“Jest a jail? Ha, hear that Ern?” Stan crowed, causing the man in the bed in the corner to snort and mumble something about slugs. “Naw, mate, Azkaban is guarded by Dementors.” Both Stan and Ernie shuddered at that.

Harry wondered if he should be asking, “What are Dememtors?” but the words were already out of his mouth before he could instil caution.

“Dementors, well, no one really knows wot they are.” Stan turned a bit white under his pimples. “They suck the happiness out of a place, that’s fer sure. Anyone who stays there, longer than a few mo’s? Crazy. Bat-shit insane, if you don’t mind me sayin’.”

Harry gulped. Currently, he was on the wrong side of the wizarding law. He was on the run. “Talk abou’ somethin’ else Stan,” Ernie changed the subject, “Bloomin things give me the collywobbles.”

Stan turned the conversation back to Sirius Black, the man in the article, for it was clear that the subject was rife with gossip, and Stan was a lover of gossip. Harry let him speak; absorbing the information he was freely granted while trying to decide what to do. Surprisingly, despite Harry’s considerable fame, not one of the people had questioned his identity as Neville, the lost boy from Surry. Catching a glimpse of himself in the bus windows, Harry realized why.

He tried not to visibly react to the sight of his classmate staring back at him from his own, almond shaped eyes. His hair was brown, and for once in his life, lying flat. His nose was longer, and his distinctive eyes had faded to a warm hazel. He was still skinny, and a little more angular, but without his most distinctive features drawing attention to him, his scar was almost unperceivable. He looked like Neville Longbottom’s long lost brother.

Harry Loved Magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban


	2. In Which Harry Gets Off The Knight Bus

Harry, unwilling to question the amount of accidental magic that had blessed him so far, was quick to assess his ability to pass unnoticed in the wizarding world. Unfortunately, Dudley’s baggy trousers would probably be a dead giveaway to his identity. Harry had never seen an adult wizard wearing trousers, and only a few muggleborns hung onto them past their first year. Figuring his uniform would be a better bet, Harry carefully cracked open his trunk, bracing it against the stable brass pole so he wouldn’t go sliding and spill all his earthly possessions over the Knight Bus.

After jimmying out a faded black work robe, Harry looked around to make sure nobody was watching too closely, and quickly ripped off his shirt before shoving the robe on over his head. He slid out of his oversized trousers, and stood up to make sure his oversized trainers weren’t peeking out under his hem. Thankfully, though rather sadly, Harry hadn’t grown a bit since the end of term. If he didn’t hit a rogue patch of wind, no one would notice his distinctive shoes. 

He was just shoving his wrinkled, oversized clothes back into his trunk when Stan appeared with a kettle of hot chocolate. Harry offered to hold the cup for Stan, as he seemed to be having a bit of trouble with the violent jerks of the bus as much as any of the muttering patrons were. Still, a fair bit of the chocolate was slopped on Harry’s pillow before he managed a full cup. 

“Sorry ‘bout tha’ Neville,” Stan said as he mopped up a bit of the pillow with a copy of the Daily Prophet, managing to grind in the stain as well as smear the clean bits of the pillow with newspaper ink. Harry could just imagine Aunt Petunia’s reaction to such stains, and manfully held back a wince.

“No problem,” Harry contemplated flipping the pillow over so he could have a bit of a lie down, but decided to wait until Stan had returned to the front. 

“Now, where will you be wanting to go?” Stan asked.

“I er- London? Maybe Gringotts?” Harry thought he might as well check to see how much gold he had before he decided on an alternative wizard career. 

“S’not open til the morning. If you want we can bump you to the back of the queue so you can get off in the mornin?” Harry didn’t quite sigh with relief, but it was a near thing.

“That would be perfect, thanks!” And for the first time since Marge had arrived, Harry smiled.

\--

Sleeping on the Knight Bus was a dangerous business, but Harry had slept through worse. Well, not really. He’d never actually got to sleep the night that Hagrid arrived to deliver his letter, and while living in a cupboard was non-ideal, it wasn’t really fair to call it worse than the Knight Bus. Sure, there were spiders, but they were mostly non-lethal and didn’t cause the ground to slide out from under him.

He woke up as the beds were being changed out for mismatched sofas and squashy chairs. He was glad to see the crusty pillow behind him. Making sure his things were still safe, Harry made his way to the front of the bus, tugging his trunk and Hedwig’s empty cage along with him.

Stan noticed him almost immediately, abruptly halting a story that seemed to involve more fruit than was quite ordinary. “Ne-heh-ville!” He tried to stifle a yawn with his entire arm. “We’ve gotta pop down to Fugglestone St. Peter to drop off Missus Jenkins, an’ then we’ll get yeh to Gringotts in time for opening.”

Harry, stifling a yawn of his own, tried to smile in gratitude. “Cheers then,” he said, and stood awkwardly, not wanting to lug his trunk back to a seat, but feeling intrusive by hovering next to the driver. Stan gave Harry another polite smile, pointedly looking forward instead of resuming his conversation, and Harry nudged his trunk backwards, scooting with it against the inertia of the crazy ride. He managed three feet before he had to brace himself for Mrs. Jenkin’s stop.

An older woman in a frankly worrying amount of shiny green dragon hide leather elbowed past him, nearly decapitating him with her matching handbag. Harry was joined by both Stan and Ernie in staring after her for a long moment. Then Ernie pulled the doors shut and they were off with a bang.

Harry had the benefit of daylight to truly appreciate how terrible wizard drivers were. Several mailboxes and shrubberies hopped out of their way, and several dozen commuters failed to notice their close encounters with a giant purple bus.

Somehow, they squeezed through a barrier to Knocturn Alley, an entrance Harry had never seen before, causing wizards and witches to plaster themselves to the buildings to avoid a messy death at the wheels of the Knight Bus. The bus lifted onto two wheels and teetered dangerously as it made the sharp turn into Diagon Alley and fell to a halt outside the neat marble facade of Gringotts.

Harry departed on wobbly legs, waving good bye to Stan and Ernie, who waved back at him half heartedly, once again stifling yawns. The Knight Bus fairly disappeared in a BANG, leaving Harry alone in front of the wizard bank, ready to attempt to find his own way in the world.

Harry breathed in a moment, steeling himself, before he was attacked by a mass of white feathers. “Hedwig!” He exclaimed, relieved to no longer be abandoned. “How did you find me?” 

Hedwig ruffled her feathers, perching herself more comfortably on his arm and nipping at his hair as if to say, ‘You doubted my superior hunting abilities?’

Harry laughed a little at her pride, conceding her point. She’d never lost him before, after all. “I’ve got to go into the bank now,” He informed her. “Do you reckon you should go in your cage for a bit while I talk to the goblins?” 

Hedwig stared at him for a few moments, then sidled up to his shoulder, giving every impression of refusing her cage all together. Harry shrugged, not particularly bothered to try to get her into her cage after the summer she’d had so far, and figured that wizards had to have done weirder things than striding into the bank with a trunk under one arm and a bird riding the other.

As he strode with borrowed confidence, Harry noted how many witches and wizards completely ignored his presence in the bank. The goblins’ eyes still followed him with narrowed suspicion as he approached the desks. “I’d like to visit my vault,” Harry said in a low voice, not sure how much information he had to provide.

“Do you have your key?” The goblin asked.

“Er yes.” Harry realized that he probably should have got that out before his turn arrived. He crouched on the ground, feeling around inside his trunk for the small bag with his key in it. Hot tingles rushed up his neck and chest, spikes of sweat prickling out under the neck of his robe as he kept coming up with socks and books. Finally, his hand brushed something velvety, and Harry yanked, hoping he didn’t have anything embarrassingly velvet in his trunk. Not that he could think of anything else he owned that was velvet. Luckily, it was his vault bag, and his key was securely inside it. Harry presented it with an awkward flourish of his hand and an aborted gesture towards fixing his hair.

“Slipshod!” The goblin barked, his gravely voice sending shocks through Harry despite his two previous encounters with such customer service.

A small, possibly younger goblin appeared with a lamp to escort Harry to his vault. Harry locked his trunk back up and hefted it once again, arm just barely starting to shake a bit. The goblin led him without asking any question or giving any verbal instructions. Once they’d reached the carts, the goblin merely gestured at an area in the back that Harry hadn’t noticed before, where personal items could be stowed. The goblin waited silently in the cart while harry secured his things and settled himself.

“Watch yourself,” the goblin finally spoke, “and your bird.”

Before he could encourage Hedwig to perch on his lap, the cart was off, almost instantly dropping into the abyss. Hedwig dug her talons into his shoulder a bit, but on the whole seemed to enjoy the ride as much as Harry did, occasionally allowing her wings to catch the air streaming past Harry’s face.

They reached the vault eventually, Harry feeling a hundred percent more awake and with several new holes in his body. The Goblin led the way to the vault, holding his hand out and demanding “Key please,” when Harry reached the door.

Harry fumbled to untie the key from its secure string, and handed it to Slipshod. Inside the vault was still the mountains of gold, because thankfully expulsion does not include a mandatory fee or any other such unpleasantness. Harry scooped a few more handfuls than usual, not sure how much money he would need. He wasn’t sure where wizards lived when they weren’t in school, and he wasn’t sure he could ask Hermione without admitting that he’d been expelled. Ron might be able to help, but he was in Egypt, and his dad worked for the ministry, so maybe he’d be obligated to turn Harry into the wizard coppers if he knew where he was.

With that dreadful thought, Harry grabbed another handful of gold.


	3. In Which Harry Makes a Discovery

With his pockets full of gold and the assurance that he had plenty more where that came from, Harry felt more prepared for his future. Unfortunately, more prepared didn’t mean he had an actual plan. Perhaps he might send Hedwig to Dumbledore and beg to be allowed to remain at Hogwarts. The headmaster definitely seemed more lenient than the Ministry of Magic were likely to be.

Unfortunately, he had no guarantee that Dumbledore could do anything about it if he broke the law. Just last year, Hagrid had been taken to prison, and Dumbledore hadn’t been able to do a thing about it until Harry had faced a basilisk in single combat. Not to mention that without Hedwig he would be unable to communicate with anyone if an emergency occurred, not to mention completely alone.

Harry didn’t know what to do with himself if he couldn’t go back to Hogwarts. He hadn’t been to muggle school in two years, and he’d never been particularly brilliant at it in the first place. He didn’t want to go back, and he was not sure that what would happen if he tried. Surely if he tried to make it on his own in the muggle world, the police would catch up to him and put him in children’s jail like Petunia always threatened.

There were other Wizarding Schools, he knew, but he didn’t know where they were or what languages he’d have to speak to go there. Maybe he should take a leaf out of Hermione’s book and find a book. Harry smirked to himself, heading towards The Leaky Cauldron. He knew they rented rooms, something he would need if he were going to survive on his own without his arm falling off from dragging his school trunk around with him everywhere.

He didn’t know if there were wizard apartments around somewhere that he could rent more long term, but he supposed that if he were to be doing the research thing, he’d eventually have that figured out as well.

Harry was just grateful that he was up early enough to avoid most of the Diagon Alley traffic. Sure, he got a few odd looks, it was a bit early to be school shopping, but he wasn’t fighting against a river of people with all his worldly possessions in hand. Harry kept a look-out for anyone too official looking anyway, and avoided eye contact with the people just opening their shops for the day.

At The Leaky Cauldron, Tom the barman was wiping down the bar absently, occasionally flicking his wand so an industrial looking tea kettle would bob over to one of the beings quietly reading their morning Prophet.

“Excuse me,” Harry waited until there was no danger of hot tea ruining someone’s morning before interrupting.

“Ello lad, what’ll it be?” Tom asked, smiling his toothless grin.

“I’d like to rent a room for the week.” Harry said with as much confidence as he could muster.

Tom looked at him with concern, but a good barman knows when not to ask so he just pulled out his customer log. Harry signed his name, Neville Smith, where indicated, and clunked a bit of gold on the counter. Tom lead him upstairs, passing several closed doors until they reached number seven. Tom opened it with a stiff bow, and deposited the key into Harry’s outstretched hand.

“Thank you,” Harry repeated, compulsively, trying to meet Tom’s eyes, but mostly making significant contact his eyebrows.

“Breakfast is included in your room fee, and today’s special is bangers and mash. Serves till ten o'clock.”

Harry tried not to yawn in his face. “Thank you.”

Tom bobbed his head and disappeared down the stairs, leaving Harry alone to collapse on the musty smelling bed provided, barely pausing to turn the latch on the door before he greeted the tatty blankets with his face.

Hysterical tears prickled at his eyes along with great bubbles of inappropriate laughter. He wanted to collapse into a mini-coma to make up for the exhaustion of his journey, but the adrenaline from his escape was just catching up to him. He’d done it. He’d escaped the Dursleys, faked his identity, and managed to avoid any run in with the law. 

He didn’t know what to do next. Harry wasn’t sure he’d really believed that he could escape punishment. He certainly wouldn’t be able to fool Dumbledore into allowing him to come back to Hogwarts. But for now he was free. And that was at least something.

Harry rolled over onto his back, grinning at the ceiling, before leaping back up to free Hedwig from her cage. She fairly blasted out of her prison, perching on the window sill and looking at him expectantly. Harry reached past her to open it, giving her an affectionate rub before  she swooped out into the alley below.

Harry flopped back onto the bed, crushing his face into the pillow. “Sleep, sleep, sleep.” He whispered to himself, convinced that if he could just be unconscious for a little while, things would sort themselves out.

 ***

 Harry woke to Hedwig’s rude talons as she landed on his head. He slurped a bit of drool back in his mouth before it could reach the pillow and sat up slowly, holding out his arm for her to perch on.

 “What am I going to do, Hedwig?” He asked her, not sure how to put it off anymore. Hedwig blinked at him, nipping at his fingers, but was otherwise unhelpful. His stomach, also unhelpful, chose that moment to grumble loudly, drawing attention to the lack of food in his immediate history. “You want to stay in or out while I go find us some food?”

 Hedwig sat for a moment, before reluctantly perching on the bedpost. Harry got up, closed the window part way, and patted his newly smooth hair into place. Straightening his robes, and hiding his trunk from the view of the window and the door, Harry made sure both were locked before he made his way down to the dining room.

Candles lit, it was apparent that Harry had made it until dinner time, which meant that it had been an entire day since he’d had more than a half cup of hot chocolate and some borrowed toothpaste in his mouth. Harry made his way to the bar, sidestepping several large groups of diners.

“Could I have the special?” Harry asked when Tom finally acknowledged him. Tom nodded, rummaging under the counter for a bowl, then ladeling up some stew from the cauldron in the back. Harry traded it for some small change, and looked around the room to see if there was a better place to retreat to.

Harry watched the thoroughfare carefully, his back to a corner, as he picked out bits of unidentifiable meat from his stew for Hedwig. Unlike his first year here, the overall tone of the group was subdued. Voices we're lowered and people hung in clumps, wary eyes staring down anyone who dared move too close. Harry wasn't really close enough to reliably eavesdrop, but he could pick out a word here and there, and it sounded like most everyone was speaking about the criminal, Sirius Black. 

Harry wasn't about to draw their attention his way, so he tried to be very interested in the slow picking apart of his napkin. Perhaps with a murderer at large, the ministry hadn't had time to investigate a little case of accidental magic yet. No one was looking at him, and no one was whispering about “that Harry Potter.”

 Harry decided he liked it.

 ***

After dinner, Harry was working himself up to going to Flourish and Blotts, unsure of his own reluctance. He had been so excited to get his books before his first year. He'd even read them before school started! But somewhere along the way his enthusiasm had flagged. But now he would probably never go to school again, so books may be his only access to magic.  
  
He felt a sudden sad kinship with Hermione. Perhaps she'd always know that it could all be taken away in an instant unless she stored it all in her head. Though, given the Gilderoy Lockhart's of the world, even knowledge in his own head might not be completely safe.  
  
With that grim thought, Harry pushed himself past his reluctance and out onto the street.   
  
The bookshop was quiet. Dusty. The floorboards squeaked, but in a muffled tone as though the weight of many books together had stolen all the sound. A bell had tinkled when he walked in, but no one came to greet him. This was fine. He slipped between the stacks. Searching for something, anything useful.  
  
Though he was tempted to pick up a new book of jinxes, or even “Quiche, Quinces, and Quidditch: a Culinary Account of the Stars," Harry forced himself to search for boring, practical books. A copy of "Travel Guide to Wizarding Britain" made its way into his arms, as well as the aptly named "So You've Been Expelled" which Harry wasn't sure he was brave enough to purchase and attempt to explain, so he tucked into a dusty corner to page through it and get advice.  
  
Attempting to sit down proved hazardous, as the seemingly empty corner was actually filled with stacks and stacks of invisible books, which chose that moment to topple on to Harry's head. To be fair to the books, Harry had quite invaded their chosen hiding place. But Harry wasn't feeling very generous. Mostly he felt bruised.  
  
Surprisingly, the noise of twenty or so books attempting a murder was not enough to tempt the shopkeep out of the back, so Harry let out a breath and sat down in the now empty-handed corner, sweeping aside a few more books that tried to stab him from below.  
  
One of the books fell open in front of him, and words appeared (though no pages, interestingly enough) introducing itself as the "Invisible Book of Invisibility" which startled a laugh out of Harry. Typical. He flipped idly to the index, to see what sorts of invisibility and invisible book might be able to teach him, who already had an invisibility cloak. His wry amusement faded when he saw the very practical list. Along with obvious, like chapter two, _Common Spells for Disillusionment_ , there was a chapter on removing tracking charms and magical detection devices.

Harry clutched the book closer too him, afraid to close it and lose it forever. This was exactly what he needed.

 

 


	4. INTERLUDE ONE

  
Sirius Black hadn't been doing well. Sanity wise. Or sanitation wise, if he were really honest. His mind was circling, which it did a lot these days.   
  
He needed to... Find him. Find Peter. Peter was at Hogwarts. He needed to find. Hogwarts. He needed to find him. He's at Hogwarts.   
  
But he followed his nose. He couldn't take the Hogwarts Express. It wouldn't go. He followed the scent. He had to find him.   
  
He found Him. But it wasn't the right him. Not Peter. But he followed his nose until he found him. Him. What was his name? How could Sirius not remember his name? He scared him. He didn't want to scare him, he loved him. He didn't have any bad memories of him. That's why they had taken him. His name. He.   
  
He disappeared. Sirius was alone again. Cold again. He had to find him.   
  
Him! Him! He's at Hogwarts! Not with him. Not with Remus. Remus who he betrayed. Remus who must hate him. Remus. Who was not at Hogwarts. Sirius's doggy nose twitched, wanting to find Remus, but there was no trace of him.   
  
He didn't have time! He had to find him! He had to find Peter! He had to find Hogwarts.   
  
Hogwarts Express.   
  
He had to find. The Hogwarts Express.   
  
After he dug through this smelly trash.

***

The thing about tracking charms is you have to do some fairly unforgivable things to make them accurate beyond a general geographical location. And while some wizards may not have a problem doing such things 'for the greater good,' the ministry had laws about such things.  
  
The disappearance of Harry Potter after a fairly large breech in the statute of secrecy wasn't cause for panic per se. Not nearly on the scale of the massive manhunt for Sirius Black led by legendary Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt. But it was still a fairly big deal. Big enough, because it was Harry Potter, that the Auror department was getting involved instead of leaving things to Madam Hopkins in the Improper use of Magic office.   
  
Hazel Wood wasn't a senior Auror, so her typical assignments were things like standing guard at Wizingamot hearings. Standing guard at crime scenes. Investigating escalations from the Improper Use of Muggle Artifacts office. Standing guard at international sporting events. There is a lot more standing than she had expected. But, she gets to be in the room, and as long as her face remains expressionless people forget she's there and she gets to hear all sorts of gossip.   
  
Not that she'd share it! She wants to gain enough seniority to investigate real crimes!   
  
But back to Potter. The magical reversal squad were dispatched to his Muggle relatives home where they found a woman hideously inflated, his aunt and uncle enraged, and the boy himself missing.   
  
The aurors had been called in when they found Harry missing, unsure if he had been abducted by dark wizards. When the furious family told them that the "ungrateful brat ran away" and "good riddance," Hazel had made knowing eye contact with her partner and swept out of the room to perform a residual magic scan.   
  
Besides the blast, the only magic they had found in the area was in the squib neighbor's house, and an emergency stop of the Knight Bus. Hazel questioned the squib, a Ms. Arabella Figg, who had been listening to Canons of the Heart over the Wireless and hadn't heard anything over the tragic death of Sergeant Billonious.   
  
Hazel's partner met her outside and together they discussed tracking down the Knight bus.   
  
"Where would a thirteen year old wizard go on the Knight bus?" Megara asked.   
  
"Better question," Hazel said, "Where on Earth does a muggle raised teen wizard even know where to go?"   
  
"Hogwarts? Diagon?"   
  
"I think we escalate this, have someone waiting for him at Hogsmead and the Leaky. We can't have him running about by himself with Sirius Black on the loose." Hazel felt important, and official, leading the team, though she suspected strongly that the issue would be taken out of her hands the moment she got back to  Headquarters.   
  
She was only partially right. The Minister of Magic himself had gotten involved, placing himself as the one waiting at the Leaky Cauldron for the Boy-Who-Lived to show up. Which was a bit weird, but she suspected was politically motivated. The boy may be just a boy for now, but eventually he was going to be a force to be reckoned with in his own right, and it would suit the minister well to have been in a position to seem helpful to the boy in his youth. Politicians were like that.   
  
Hazel had just hoped they didn't completely freak the boy out. It took a lot of extreme emotion to produce that kind of accidental magic at thirteen. And from what she'd seen in the house? Well.   
  
The problem was, the boy didn't turn up in either place.

Hazel and Megara finally stuck their wands out, and interrogated the barmy Knight Bus driver and his spotty assistant, they had no record of their passengers. And when they asked straight out if Harry Potter, tiny kid with black hair, had ridden their bus, they said no.   
  
Hazel wouldn't say that she was excited that a child was missing. But the plot had definitely thickened, and she found a lot of joy in going over all the passengers Stan Shunpike could remember. He had a colorful memory for eccentricities. He remembered about ten percent of the names, but knew anyone in a funny hat.   
  
He remembered only one child, which caught Hazel's attention. He said he couldn't be the Boy Who Lived though, "Wee titchy thing, couldn't been more'n a firsty." He said.   
  
But Hazel pressed on. Her baby brother had gone on and on about Harry Potter when he first joined the quidditch team, and in between messily scrawled exclamations about how he was "Absolutely fearless" and "a complete natural flyer" he had mentioned his "perfect seeker's build" and how anxious he was to win the house cup before "Potter hits some kind of mad growth spurt and ruins himself."   
  
Hazel had always got the impression that the boy was pretty... Compact. For a super powerful, dark lord defeating, possible sorcerer.   
  
Today, on a hunch, she was going to talk to Tom from the Leaky Cauldron. Stan Shunpike might not have recognized the Boy-Who-Lived if he didn't see the scar. But she would. He could be wandering around Diagon Alley as they speak.   
  
***

Remus had almost expected this. He wasn't surprised. He'd stopped being surprised by things years ago. He wasn't even mad. He was. Tentatively excited. He hadn't had regular work for a while, had been traveling around the world working as a wand for hire in small villages where the Ministry didn't cover magical creature removal. He hadn't tried to settle down since he'd been fired as a professor from his last job at the Gwerin Teg Ysgol o Hud, in Wales. It had been a hard layoff, since he'd worked his way up from assistant professorship all the way to senior professor. He'd been almost to tenure, seven years teaching, seven published research paper, when his health started seriously declining. It was hard because, they didn't even fire him because he was a werewolf. He was just missing too many days to be an effective educator.   
  
One of his colleagues, a half pixie from Glasgow, had suggested that perhaps his health was declining due to lack of pack, and perhaps if he went out and found a new pack he would revitalize.   
  
Not only did Remus not believe that human wizards weren’t really wolves, who needed “packs,” Remus didn't know how to express how little interest he had replacing his pack. In wiping away the memories of the only people who were truly important to him, and plastering over them with brand new friends, all for something as stupid as his health.   
  
So he quit, before they could fire him. Left his comfortable teacher's cottage, filled his hilariously fancy teacher's case, which James and... Which his friends had proudly presented him with already embossed _Professor R.J. Lupin_ when he was just an assistant, with all his worldly possessions. He'd traveled the world, fighting his demons and actual monsters for what little food and shelter people could share.   
  
It was hard to kill a werewolf. Even if you starved one, it could hang on almost indefinitely. It was a fascinating subject of study. Remus had begun to think, in his darker hours, that werewolves had some kind of earth magic connection, which supported them even when their human body was failing.   
  
He wouldn't admit to sometimes seeing, just for science's sake, how long he could go. But it made the wolf desperate. The transformation somehow more painful. So he usually tried to eat as much as he could in the prelude to the full moon.   
  
And then Dumbledore. Who he'd always be grateful to for his education. For his secrecy when Remus almost- For his opportunity. Dumbledore asked him to try out professorship again. A life he desperately missed. A life he ached for as he was slaying another bogart, another kappa, another werewolf.   
  
Dumbledore just so happened to have an opening at Hogwarts. After all these years of openings. He wanted Remus to come teach. And oh by the way, they had a working Brewer of Wolfsbane who'd been interested in participating in replicating human trials. Just to make sure it worked. Would you mind quieting your werewolf half?   
  
No mention of Him. No mention of, perhaps you'd like the chance to make up for not catching him before it was too late. Not, we need someone who knew him to predict what he may do. Not. We're offering you this opportunity because of him. Because we weren't interested in you without him. Like Remus didn't know. Like Remus wasn't interested in him without _him_ either.   
  
So he accepted. Of course he accepted. He owed Dumbledore so much. It would be a brilliant opportunity. He was going back to Hogwarts.   



	5. In which there is a lot of ice cream and musings

Under the cover of darkness, Harry carefully follows the diagram in the Invisible Book of Invisibility. He swishes and pokes several times to get the hang of it, but he is rarely able to do a spell on the first try, less comfortable with the wand movements than Hermione, who practices, or Ron, who seems to just know sometimes. He hopes the spell will glow or something so he'll know it is working.  
  
Finally, Harry spits out a mouthful of Latin, hoping against hope that the book is right, and the trace on underage magic only works in muggle areas.  
  
Nothing happens.  
  
Harry's about to perform the spell again when a hint of gold light catches his eye. He spins to the mirror, staring at the faint light radiating from under his robe. He shucks the whole thing off, standing near starkers in the middle of the room. He is glowing. Green and blue and gold and a tiny bit of red. Harry grins at himself, a job well done, and then his smile fades. He is fairly covered in tracking charms. It seems almost impossible that no one knows where he is.  
  
The invisible book lies helpfully on his bed, and Harry flips to the next page to see if perhaps there is a color guide. He's ready to be invisible.  
  
***  
  
Harry was trying not to think of his expulsion as a vacation. It was hard, because his bout of accidental magic had left him looking far enough from his own appearance that he was able to spend time in the wizarding world without being the center of a thousand stares.  
  
His new look was as generic as it was possible to be. Bright green eyes softened to blue, and his messy black hair  into neat brown. His skin lightened to a generic tan.  
  
He took a bag full of books to the ice cream shop, because they had outdoor seating, and Mr. Fortescue didn't seem to mind him staying a few hours after he bought a tea and chocolate.  
  
Harry had never minded studying magic during the summer, desperate to hold on to any thread of connection to the magic world. And now that he knew he was a fugitive, his desperation for any and all magical information was verging on swottishness.  
  
After his third day of study, Mr. Fortescue began bringing him extra ice creams during lulls between customers. At first, Harry tried to say "no thank you, I'm good!" Because he didn't want to spend his entire inheritance on frozen dessert. But Mr. Fortescue merely smiled blithely and said, "On the house." And wiped up the surrounding tables.  
  
Harry didn't want to burden Mr. Fortescue, but he didn't know where else to go. Perhaps he could hang out in Flourish and Blotts, but they didn't really encourage customers to stay, and he couldn't bring his books. He contemplated just using the books there, but eventually concluded that freeloading at the bookstore would be worse than sitting a bit too long at the ice cream parlor. People sat too long at cafés all the time. There was a fellow who came in the afternoons who Harry was pretty sure was writing some kind of novel.  
  
After a week, Harry gradually began to relax, ceasing to look endlessly over his shoulders for the aurors to swoop down and carry him off to jail. At that point, Mr. Fortescue finally asked, "What's your name anyway, kid."  
  
Harry startled and flubbed over spitting out "Ha-er Neville! Neville Smith." And looked fixedly at Mr. Fortescue's left eyebrow, which quirked in amusement.  
  
"Hmm," Mr. Fortescue hummed, but continued bustling tables rather than calling out Harry's appalling lying. "You going to be studying at Hogwarts this year" he asked, right when Harry thought to go back to his book.  
  
Harry gripped his book "I really hope so."  
  
"Oh yes, they don't send out acceptance letters until early July, do they?" Harry shook his head, slightly indignant that everyone kept assuming he was a first year, but mostly remembering that he was a fugitive and any wrong guess wasn't a right one.  
  
"I really hope I can go."  
  
"Well, you're a bright lad, reading all those big books, even if you don't make it to Hogwarts, you're sure to make it into one of the hedge schools. I know that's not what young people want to hear, but if you study hard and work on technique, you can go far even without a lot of raw power."  
  
Harry... hadn't realized that Great Britain had other wizarding schools. Why hadn't Hagrid gone to another school after he'd been expelled?  
  
"Did you go to Hogwarts Sir?" Harry wondered if he were speaking from personal experience.  
  
"Ah, well yes, I did. Fortescue is an old family, so our kin get marked down from birth, regardless of power. But I had a childhood friend who went to the Scottish School of Magic, and she's a professional arithmancer! Has an amazing head for numbers, that one." 

"O-oh? What does an arithmancer do?" Harry only vaguely remembered that arithmancy was a class he didn't sign up for at the end of his last semester at Hogwarts.  
  
"Something to do with architecture, in the planning stages." Harry debated whether to nod in understanding or not. "Oh, well. Magical building. She builds magic into equations that help builders set up a magical building to expand and so forth. If they just charm them, the charms tend to go funny after a few years. It's why it's such a big deal when wizards get caught modifying muggle houses. Death-traps, all of them."  
  
An image of a blue Ford Anglia living savagely in the forest flashed before his eyes. Oh.  
  
"That's really cool!" Harry said instead of shuddering, not sure what he could contribute to the conversation.  
  
Mr. Fortescue ruffled his hair and left him to his book, but after the silence was broken, Mr. Fortescue made it a point to talk to Harry every day.  
  
He hadn't realized initially how isolated he had felt, stranded in the middle of Diagon Alley with not a soul who knew his name. He hadn't even worked up the courage to send Hedwig to Ron or Hermione, so despite being free from the Dursleys, his summer had been as lonely as ever. If very much more magical.  
  
But magic couldn't make up for everything. And those little bright spots of conversation began to mean everything to Harry, beyond the fascinating look into the Wizarding World from the perspective of someone who seemed to know everything and everyone in it.  
  
***  
Florean wondered when he should tell the lad that he knew he was Harry Potter. It wasn't a hard connection to make, if you were in the know.  
  
He was actually surprised that the disappearance of Harry Potter hadn't rated the Daily Prophet. He had a dark feeling that Albus Dumbledore was hoping to keep things quiet until the school year had started and it could no longer be concealed. But what really concerned him was the Ministry's collusion. He'd seen aurors questioning people up and down the alley.  
  
He was actually curious how the Boy-Who-Lived had hidden himself so neatly when anyone with logic could guess that the random parentless child wandering around Diagon every day was the other missing, parentless child they were all looking for.  
  
But Florean hadn't spoken up.  
  
Honestly, at first he hadn't known who the boy was.  No one had announced his disappearance, and as a purveyor of ice cream desserts, he saw a lot of children who wanted to drop their pocket money sans parental supervision.  
  
It was only after he'd seen the same child day after day, quietly reading and eating as slow as possible, as if worried he'd be kicked out for loitering. Not typical behavior for a child with parents waiting for him.  
  
In fact, Florean had begun to suspect he was a runaway by day three. He knew children, and children were not generally content to sit and read textbooks for hours and hours. It wasn't until he heard the backchannel whispers that the Boy-Who-Lived had disappeared, and that maybe Sirius Black had kidnapped him for some dark ritual? That he made the connection.  
  
He still didn't say anything though. The boy didn't look like Harry Potter, and Florean knew they didn't teach human transfiguration until NEWT level. But, for all that he had apparently found an impenetrable disguise, Harry Potter was actually a fairly terrible liar.  
  
The only reason he hadn't tried to contact the Aurors is that he didn't think Sirius Black had Harry. If he did, the boy was with him willingly, because he had all the time in the world to escape and had chosen to spend that time reading instead. If the boy wasn't with Sirius Black, and somehow wasn't using his own face, well, that might be the safest place for him.  
  
Try as Dumbledore might to suppress word from getting out, it was nevertheless common knowledge that Harry Potter had had some pretty dangerous 'adventures' at Hogwarts.  
  
Florean had only a vague knowledge that the boy who lived stayed with some muggle relations, but he knew that Dumbledore must have quite a large say in the boy's magical guardianship decisions, because any reasonable parent might have yanked the boy right out of that school after a professor tried to murder him. If it weren't for the important ties that Hogwarts had to the Wizarding Government, and the stellar educational reputation it still had somehow despite steadily declining test scores in a variety of subjects, Florean was sure that parents would be flocking to the other wizarding schools to provide a safer educational environment for their darling children. It said something about wizards that very few had made that move.  
  
Still, ambition was a powerful thing, and ambition for one's children even more so. Florean himself had been planning to send his daughter to Hogwarts despite everything. He still might, if he had the choice.  
  
  
  
  



	6. In Which Harry Discovers an Ability, and The Magical World Finds Out

"So she just, let herself be caught on _purpose_ ?" Harry scoffed. He was banking on Mr. Fortescue being old enough that he might not recognize third year coursework. Somehow, despite serving ice cream for a living, Mr. Fortescue knew absolutely everything about history of magic. And potions, surprisingly.  
  
"Ingredients are ingredients, what is ice cream but a very tasty potion?" Mr. Fortescue had mused when Harry had finally asked, rather rudely.  
  
He hadn't come up with a similar explanation for his history knowledge, but Harry hadn't pressed.  
  
"With a flame freezing charm, fire's not a big deal. Haven't you ever taking the floo?" Mr. Fortescue asked, pausing in his tidying up to fix Harry with a long look.  
  
"Once," Harry admitted, trying to put the pieces together himself, "I didn't do any charms though. Are there flame freezing charms on wizard fireplaces?" He guessed, faced scrunched up.  
  
"Not quite." Mr. Fortescue smiled though, nodding his head despite the negative. "You couldn't heat anything in the flames if you charmed the whole fire place, there wouldn't be any use other than flooing." He paused, letting Harry think some more.  Refusing to just give him the answer. Mr. Fortescue would be a good teacher, Harry thought, he'd never fall asleep in _his_ class.  
  
"The charm could be..." Harry looked around as though he could pull the answer from the daily sights of Diagon Alley, "on the powder? It's a weird green color,could that be a charm?" It had to be the powder. He was almost certain. Still, wizards and logic weren't exactly friends.  
  
"Almost exactly correct!" Mr. Fortescue beamed like Harry had just personally won the house cup  "Except it's not a charm, floo powder is actually a potion!"  
  
Harry stared at him, mouth making a small O. It made perfect sense but he'd never thought of it before. There were a lot of things he'd never known before. Perhaps expulsion had been the best thing to ever happen to him.  
  
***  
  
Hazel had tried every legal tracking charm and even a few that were in a pretty dark grey area. They might have to raise this case from a simple runaway to a full blown kidnapping case if they don't find the boy soon. No thirteen year old should be able to hide himself so effectively from magical detection. Especially not on the heels of such a magical outburst. If he knew how to hide his magic use, he wouldn't have been in trouble in the first place.  
  
Unfortunately, beyond interviewing people who knew him, there wasn't much she could do to find him without magic.  
  
The minister had restricted them from utilizing the wireless alert system to mobilize the magical population to search for the boy. She understood there was quite a lot of political pressure to hide the disappearance of the Boy-Who-Lived to prevent any upheaval about how well, or not, they had been taking care of a national icon.  
  
But as much as it would be inconvenient for Cornelius Fudge, the longer a child stays missing, the lower the chances of discovering him went. Hazel may be a Junior Auror, but she was good at her job, and she payed attention to training. She knew the terrible things that people did to each other.  
  
Which is why she had to talk to Auror Shacklebolt. It was marginally possible that Sirius Black had not kidnapped Harry Potter. But if he had, Shacklebolt had the resources to get the word out there.  
  
Muggle news broadcasts had photos of Sirius Black, even. That was power.  
  
Which was a large part of why she was so nervous. Junior Aurors did not dictate the caseloads of senior Aurors. But. This needed escalation. So she must.  
  
Hazel breathed, lifted her hand, knocked on the door, and held her breath.  
  
"Come in,"

Hazel exhaled.

***

Minerva was. Concerned. She was in charge of sending out letters every year, and though she didn't write them all, she did look over them to make certain everything was correct, and each student was prepared for their school year.  
  
In the past, Harry Potter had had difficulty getting his letter. It was with more than a hint of mischievousness that she performed a doubling charm and enlisted more and more of the school owls returning from their more standard deliveries to make sure that he got one.  
  
Typically, if someone missed a letter, she'd only send one or two follow up letters, just in case they had missed it. But she'd seen the horrible muggles that Potter had been placed with, and she had never approved of them. The fact that they'd kept his letter from him vindicated her even as it infuriated her.  
  
Now, the owl that had left with Harry's letter had returned with the letter undelivered. It should be impossible, unless the boy was dead. The post owls always delivered.  
  
She hadn't been particularly worried before, when she heard that Potter had run away from those awful muggles. If she lived with the Dursleys, she'd have run away too. Potter was resourceful, he could take care of himself. And Black was on the run.  
  
But. For all that Sirius Black had supposedly betrayed his friends and led them to their deaths. Minerva had never believed that the boy she had taught for seven years could do anything to harm Harry.  
  
But. Post owl magic was deep and reliable. Even an old owl was never lost, even if it was late.  
  
That the owl had returned meant that something terrible had happened. Death or dark magic, it had to be, even distance wouldn't account for this anomaly. Albus may not wish to publicize his inability to watch over the Boy-Who-Lived, but it was time.  
  
Minerva considered her options. Albus would say no. The Minister would never agree. But Minerva had taught most of the people under age fifty in prominent positions anywhere in the magical world.  
  
She pulled out a quill and began to write.  
  
"Dear Mr. Smudgley..."  
  
***  
It was Harry's birthday. He was finally turning thirteen. He hadn't received a single gift, a single card, a letter from Hogwarts telling him to appear before the Board of Governors to have his wand snapped, anything. It was the first time since he'd been introduced to Hogwarts that his birthday had been forgotten.  
  
He didn't cry. Harry was used to dealing with disappointment. And part of him had always expected this. Though a greater part of him remembered last year, when Dobby had stopped his mail. There could be a magical reason why his friends couldn't contact him. There had to be.  
  
Or maybe, when he lost Hogwarts he lost everything. Maybe he needed to face up to the consequences of his actions and beg to be allowed to stay in the magical world. They would snap his wand, but maybe Mr. Fortescue would hire him to serve ice cream. He could stay in Diagon Alley forever.  
  
Harry wasn't sure. But he was thirteen, he was learning more and more about this world that had chosen him, and he'd been saving his money wisely. He was going to buy himself a present.

Harry scrubbed his eyes, peeked at himself in the mirror to make sure his disguise was still in place. He was still so scrawny, he thought, he should be taller now as a proper thirteen year old. He narrowed his eyes at himself, and shot up an inch, then stumbled back in surprise that it had worked. It wasn't an emergency, it wasn't an accident. He had made himself taller just by willing it.  
  
Was this a thing that all wizards could do? His mind flew back to Eloise Midgen and her unfortunate quest to rid herself of acne, and decided it must not be.  
  
Was it something like Parselmouth? A magical gift? Had he had the power to make his hair lie flat this entire time? He thought of Aunt Petunia, her vicious combing and forced haircuts, and smiled. Maybe he'd had the power all along.

Harry started his reflection down and made his hair ginger.  
  
"Oh dear, not ginger," the mirror sighed, and Harry jumped again. He always forgot the mirrors. They were one of his _least_ favorite magical things. Harry popped his hair back to brown, patting it down, hoping he’d managed to turn it back to the exact shade.

“Don’t let me stop you experimenting love. Only, if you have the power to change your looks, why _choose_ ginger?” The mirror sneered.

“I like ginger!” Harry said.

“Why not a nice blonde?”

“I would not look good as a blonde.” Harry protested.

“No one is here to see but me.” Harry didn’t think that mirrors could smile, but he got the distinct impression this one was.

Curious, Harry fixed his eyes hard on his reflected forehead, concentrating. Fine white blonde hair in a disturbingly familiar shade swished down his forehead. Harry purposely messed it up, smirking, then reverted all the way back to his original appearance, breathing hard.

“The blonde was nice!” The mirror said, “Much nicer than that shaggy mop. Tidy that up.” Harry gritted his teeth and carefully went about replacing his disguise. He couldn’t leave his room looking like Harry Potter. Possibly ever again.

***

_HARRY POTTER KIDNAPPED BY SIRIUS BLACK?_

_By Andy Smudgley_

_Sources close to the Ministry of Magic revealed that Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, has been missing for over a fortnight. The Magical Law Enforcement Office has refused to comment on why they kept such important news a secret for so long. A disgruntled MLE patrolwoman responded “How do you know about this?” and “This isn’t public information, give me that quill.” When this reporter reached out to Albus Dumbledore, magical guardian to the young wizarding hero, he merely said “Not to worry, young Harry will be back at Hogwarts on September first with the rest of his classmates.”_

_When further questioned about the suspicious timing of the boy wizard’s disappearance and the escape from Azkaban by notorious murderer Sirius Black, Dumbledore said “What a silly notion, who is telling you such things.” No word yet as to what the Ministry of Magic is doing to recover the lost child. But it’s an election year, so I imagine we’ll be hearing_ something _from our dear Minister soon._

 


	7. In Which Harry Receives an Offer

Instead of his usual anonymous walk through Diagon Alley, Harry found his trip to buy himself at present buffeted on all sides by whispers. He heard "Harry Potter," and "poor boy" passing from one hushed mouth to the next, and it took all of his nerve to keep walking. He ducked into the ice cream parlor instead of continuing on to the shops, just to see what on Earth was going on.   
  
"Neville," Mr. Fortescue waved him to his usual seat, surrounded by customers, so at least there were five or so people not talking about him.    
  
Harry sat heavily. He looked around at the chatting customers, speaking low over bowls of fire ice and levitating lemon sorbet balls. Without a purpose, Harry picked at a bit of loose skin around his fingernail, hissing sharply when he pulled too hard and pulled it completely off. He tried to still his hands, but found them creeping over to pick at a loose thread in the sleeve of his robe.    
  
He strained his ears to try to overhear a conversation or two, but no one nearby was conveniently explaining the situation in chronological order for him to eavesdrop on.   
  
After a small eternity, Mr. Fortescue came by to drop off a small chocolate ice cream with treacle swirl. "Alright lad?" He asked, steady.   
  
"Yeah," Harry said to his hands, then "Thank you." With an effort.   
  
Mr. Fortescue paused, like maybe he knew Harry wasn't just thanking him for yet another free ice cream. He looked at Harry, somehow more piercing than his usual firm eye contact. Harry shifted in his seat.   
  
"Neville, my family is having a dinner to celebrate my daughter's acceptance to Wycombe Abbey, and I'd like you to come."   
  
Harry couldn't answer for a second, his shoulders hunched up in automatic suspicion. When he finally managed to spit something out, it was just a rather rude "Why?"

"I had an idea, and I rather thought it would be better to present it out of the public sphere." Mr. Fortescue said, rather vaguely. "And I thought it would be nice for you to meet my daughter. She's about your age, you might get along." He smiled crookedly, and Harry considered it.   
  
"What kind of idea," Harry pressed, not quite ready to follow him home, regardless of how helpful his conversation had been as Harry frantically researched with the spirit of Hermione to figure out what to do.   
  
Mr. Fortescue looked casually around at his happy patrons, then flicked his wand low over the table, the happy chatter dampening to an indistinct murmur.   
  
"I know that you're Harry Potter." Mr Fortescue said, and just like that, Harry was standing, hand on his wand and ready to leave.   
  
"How- when? How long-" Harry spluttered.   
  
"Calm down," Mr. Fortescue hissed, "The charm won't work if they're actually interested what we're saying."    
  
Harry lowered himself into the seat, arms crossed, "How long have you known?"   
  
"Not as long as you'd think, your disguise is very effective. Might I ask? No, there is time for that later. I heard whispers that Harry Potter had disappeared, and well, there aren't /that/ many unaccompanied minors allowed to spend every day alone in Diagon Alley. I put it together."   
  
"Why didn't you say anything?" Harry said.   
  
"Why didn't you?"   
  
"Fair enough." Harry conceded.   
  
"Regardless, I don't know why you've decided you need to disappear, but you need an education, so I've decided to help you."   
  
"Because you knew I was Harry Potter?"   
  
"Because you're a child, and if you've managed to evade your guardians this well, you have reason to. I would be remiss to leave any child alone to figure things out."   
  
Harry wasn't quite sure he believed him. Not yet. But Harry had lied first. So he couldn’t hold that against him, even if he really wanted to.   
  
"Tell me, what your plan is, and I'll come with you." Harry demanded.   
  
"I've told you before, Fortescues are put on the list at birth, have I not?" He waited for Harry's nod, then continued. "We received a Hogwarts letter. For my daughter, Fabergé."   
  
"Ok," Harry drawled but didn't press.   
  
"As I've mentioned, Fabergé has recently accepted a place at Wycombe, so she won't be needing her place at Hogwarts."   
  
Harry felt like there was probably some subtext he was missing here, but he wasn't quite sure. "Why wouldn't she want to go to Hogwarts?" Hogwarts was wonderful, Hogwarts was his  _ home _ .

"She's a squib." Mr. Fortescue said, soft. "She was born without magic. We finally got her tested last year after she hadn't displayed any accidental magic at all. So then she began preparing to go to muggle school and we made sure she would be at the best muggle school possible so she can still be successful."

"Oh." The only squib Harry had ever encountered was Filch. "That's good, I, that sounds like a good school."    
  
"And, depending on how you built that fantastic disguise, I wondered if you might not wish to return to Hogwarts in her place."   
  
"..." Harry did not say anything.   
  
Neither did Mr. Fortescue.   
  
"You want me to pretend to be an eleven year old girl!"    
  
"It depends on how badly you want to go back to Hogwarts. I would also, of course, be willing to sponsor you as a ward if you wished to make a late application to one of the hedge schools instead. My friend, the Arithmancer, is on the school board. You could apply as muggle born, and have a perfectly excellent, if less prestigious education."

Harry got the sense that he had really thought this through. But before Harry could protest again, Fortescue simply said, "Think about it." And broke the charm that surrounded him. Harry hadn't even remembered to ask him how everyone suddenly knew he was missing. He took a bite of his melting ice cream. He could deal with that later.

  
***   
  
Later, after Harry had cautiously ventured out to look at the Quidditch shop, and held himself back from purchasing a set of solid gold quill nibs, he returned to Mr. Fortescue's. He had decided that he must trust  _ someone _ . And Mr. Fortescue's had never betrayed his trust so far. He wanted to at least hear him out. And. If this was the only way to get back to Hogwarts, well, Harry had done crazier things.   
  
Mr. Fortescue's was just locking up, charming the door with a circle of his wand. It was the first time Harry had ever seen him without his cheerily striped apron and paper hat.   
  
He looked around, and smiled when he saw Harry waiting. He walked over with a brisk stride, asking, "Are you coming then?" To which Harry nodded and fell into step with him. To Harry's surprise, they didn't stop at the Leaky Cauldron to use the floo, and instead wandered on through to Muggle London. Mr. Fortescue kept up a constant stream of silly stories of what had happened during the day at the parlor, and Harry listened quietly with a sick twist in his gut. He didn't have a lot of experience with families. He knew the Dursleys and the Weasleys and one had liked him and one had not. And as much as Mr. Fortescue seemed to like him, he didn't know if his family would feel the same. What would Fabregé think of some strange boy wearing her face? What would Mrs. Fortescue's think of a scruffy boy dirtying up her house.

With all the talk of family legacy, Harry had half expected a manor home, but he was instead led to a very nice town house within twenty minutes walking distance of the Alley. He began to wonder how much being an ice cream shop owner made, as they entered, and Harry looked around at the warm but comforting antique furnishings in the entry way.

The house smells strongly of spices, and Harry follows quietly after Mr. Fortescue as he leads the way deeper into the house, suddenly shy now that he’s actually in the house. The rug must be magic, because as he looks down at his feet, he notices his shoes becoming noticeably cleaner and in better repair. He wishes he had thought to purchase something new instead of just wearing Dudley’s old trainers, but it was too late now.

The room he was lead to was a very posh drawing room. A tall, sharp looking woman was sitting with a young girl, and both looked up from delicate painted teacups to greet the intruders. The woman smiled, and stood, the girl rocketing up to greet her father.

“Papa!” She exclaimed as she leapt forward, her tea cup just barely slamming down on the coffee table with an ominous rattle on its saucer. And then, as she reached his arms for a genuinely enthusiastic hug that Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anyone give to their parents, she stopped short. Encircled, but not quite embracing, she tilted her head to look past her father at his scruffy shadow. “Who’s this?”

“This,” Mr. Fortescue cleared his throat, looking at his wife, rather than his daughter, is Mr. Neville Smith. He’ll be joining us for supper.” At “Neville Smith” the woman nodded her head slightly, so Harry assumed she also knew his true identity. Interesting that they wouldn’t share such a thing with their own daughter, but then, who knew her secret-keeping capabilities.

“Oh,” The girl said, looking a bit put out, gaze flicking over Harry’s general appearance, “Charity.” She concluded and apparently dismissed him. Mrs. Fortescue bestowed her daughter with a sharp look, but Harry was used to being dismissed when people didn’t know he was  _ The _ Harry Potter, so it didn’t phase him much.

“Neville,” Mr. Fortescue said with emphasis, “This is Fabergé, my beloved daughter,” He bopped her on the nose with a finger, “And this is Mrs. Fortescue, the light of my life.” Mrs. Fortescue  nodded gravely at that, as though being the light of someone’s life was a very serious notion indeed. No one said anything for a second, and Harry didn’t know what he was supposed to say, so he just looked back at them all awkwardly. 

“Nice to meet you?” Harry tried.

More silence.

“Why don’t we go wash up? I’ll show you the lavatory.”

“Of course,” Harry said, stupidly grateful not to be required to make conversation.


	8. In Which Dinner is Served

When her husband had left with Harry Potter to go wash up for dinner, Sigrún finally let her eyebrows raise. The boy looked nothing like what he’d been described as, and she hadn’t been able to sense any sort of glamour. She sipped her tea thoughtfully. She would love to get a look at what spells, or potions she supposed, he’d got his hands on. And so young. She could definitely see why her husband might wish to do him a good turn. It was always good to align one’s self to that sort of power early.

“Fabergé,” She said, softly to her daughter who had flopped back on the chaise lounge as soon as the door closed behind her father, one foot up and a forearm across her eyes. “That’s no way to treat the furniture, dearest.”

“I don’t care about the furniture.” Fabergé sulked.

“Why don’t you come sit by me and tell me what’s wrong? You were very rude to Neville, that’s not like you.”

Fabergé did not come sit close to her mother, but then, she was eleven now. A certain amount of independance was to be expected. 

“Does father want to replace me?” Fabergé asked, and independance forsaken, Sigrún moved to kneel in front of her daughter, stealing one tiny hand to hold between her own.

“Of course not! Your father loves you more than life itself, darling.” Her heart ached for her poor girl. She’d known something like this was coming. Their world was not kind to the less magically inclined, and shielding their daughter from that unkindness had the unfortunate side effect of isolating her. “He is doing everything in his power to give you everything you need to be happy and successful. You know how much research he did to find you that school. He wants only the best for you.” Sigrún didn’t know how to reassure her more.

“Why does he want Neville then?” Sigrún could hear the unspoken 'aren’t I enough?’

Sigrún took a second to think. This was an important moment in their relationship. “Do you love me?” She finally asked.

“Of course” Fabergé said, with the boundless confidence of one who is not yet a teenager. 

“And do you love Father?”

“Ye-es.” Fabergé drew the word out, knowing there was a lesson here, but not quite grasping what it might be.

“How is this possible?” Sigrún asked, pressing one hand to her chest, “Do you wish to replace me with Father?”

“Ugh no Mother. That's different.” Fabergé rolled her eyes and tried to tug her hand away from Sigrún’s loosened grip. Sigrún pulled her closer.

“Love is not a finite thing dear one. There is always room for more. Helping Neville will never take away from the love in our hearts for you.”

Fabergé slumped. 

“But he’s magic.”

“So’s Rufus.”

“Rufus is a cat.”

“And I don't love him more than you.”

***

Harry entered the formal dining room with trepidation. Aunt Petunia never let him eat in her formal dining room. But the long table looked more like a Hogwarts feast than a dinner party, so maybe it would be ok. 

Mrs. Fortescue and Fabergé entered from another door, and the whole family stood behind their chairs until Mrs. Fortescue sat at the head of the table.

The dishes had some sort of hunt going on in elegant, minimalist brush strokes. But unlike Aunt Petunia’s carefully hoarded painted China, the hunt was violent and moved like all wizarding art. Harry’s dish kept being crossed by groups of magical creatures led by a horned man on a stag. He didn't know what they were looking for, or if their painted nature would ever allow them to find it. He’s not sure he wants to see some poor animal getting slaughtered while he eats, but it is probably intended to keep things in perspective.

Mr. Fortescue, at Mrs. Fortescue’s nod, waved his wand and food appeared in the serving dishes in the middle of the table. Mrs. Fortescue served herself a double ladelful of violently pink soup, and her family followed after.

After everyone had tasted and nodded in agreement that the soup was delicious, Mr. Fortescue began to tell stories of his day. It was an extremely normal dinner. Harry looked back and forth, waiting for them to ask him a question, but they didn't. 

Mr. Fortescue finished his story and asked, “Fabergé, my dear one, what have you done today?”

Fabergé, who hadn't looked Harry’s way even once, was suddenly very fascinated with her bowl. 

“Miss Fabergé,” Mrs. Fortescue interrupts, “Has discovered the explosive quality of baking ingredients today.”

Mr. Fortescue’s eyebrows rose, and Harry didn't think he was imagining that he looked impressed rather than angry.

“Have you indeed?” He didn't quite smile, but Fabergé looked up at him.

“We-ell, I was reading this morning and I heard that any powder divided finely enough will explode if it's put under pressure.” Mr. Fortescue covered his mouth with his fist, nodding seriously. “So I asked Zetsy to help me make a cake, and I may have misap- misopr- ah, taken some flour in a bottle. To the tree house.” She stopped abruptly, looking at her mother.

Mrs. Fortescue nods her on.

“I may have also taken the candelabra from the portrait gallery.”

“While it was on fire,” Mrs. Fortescue helped.

“Well I didn't have any other way to test it! If I hadn't taken it outside I would have had to perform my experiments inside!”

Mr. Fortescue cleared his throat over a suspicious sounding cough, “Naturally, blowing things up inside would be  _ irresponsible _ .”

Fabergé nodded, satisfied, “Yes. So. I tested my hypothesis and I can independently confirm that flour does explode.”

“And that hedges aren't fireproof,” Mrs. Fortescue's added dryly.

“Did you write it down?” Mr. Fortescue asked, at this point barely containing his delight.

Fabergé scoffed “Of course I wrote it down. I'm a  _ scientist _ . I'll show you after dinner.” 

Mr. Fortescue's beamed. Wizards were all bonkers.

***   
  
After dinner, Fabergé showed her parents her experimental notebook and was sent reluctantly up to her room for bed. The Fortescues brought Harry back to the parlor for what he assumed was the point of the evening.    
  
"I meant to ask before," Harry blurted, while Mr. Fortescue was levitating a small glass of something amber over to his wife. "Why does everyone suddenly know I'm missing?"   
  
"Ah," Mr. Fortescue sent a tiny cup of chocolate over to Harry while he swirled his own drink. "It seems that someone has finally leaked your disappearance to the press. Though I'm honestly surprised it took this long. The ministry isn't known for being discreet."   
  
"Oh," Harry said in a small voice.   
  
"They're blaming your disappearance on Sirius Black, you know." Mrs. Fortescue said.   
  
"But that doesn't make any sense, what would he want with me."   
  
The Fortescues appeared to have a whole conversation in exchanged glances. Usually he had to insert some subtle foot stomping and maybe an elbow jab to make his point without words. The ease of their communication made him uncomfortably aware of a hollow, aching feeling in his chest that was always there, but which he’d grown accustomed to ignoring.   
  
"Harry, I don't know why nobody has informed you of this. But, Sirius Black betrayed your Parents to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."   
  
Of course, Harry thought. Of course he did. Because there wasn't a single mad event going on in this magical community that wasn't directly related to Harry and his awful life.    
  
"I do wonder," Mrs. Fortescue commented, as though asking if he thought it might rain today, "If you've not been kidnapped by a dangerous criminal, what  _ exactly _ you have been doing on your own."   
  
Harry shifted, not quite as confident in his own decision-making skills in the face of Mrs. Fortescue's everything.    
  
"I, well, I blew up my Aunt and now I'm on the run from the law."    
  
***   
  
Harry Potter was a precious idiot.    
  
Sigrún listened to his tale of woe, his reasoning, his planning. And while he had managed an impressive feat, it was all on the back of some shockingly poor reasoning.   
  
"Harry, dear," she interrupted when it looked like he was about out of steam, more affectionate than she was given to being with strangers. "You do know that there is absolutely no way that Hogwarts would expel  _ Harry Potter _ over a bit of accidental magic, right?”   
  
His jaw tightened. "I mean," she corrected, "Accidental magic is what you're at school to learn to control. It doesn't make sense for them to expel a student for something they have to learn. They just like to scare you a little so you won't do it in front of muggles."   
  
Harry looked to Florean, and eased a bit when he nodded, and wasn't that an interesting development. She tucked it away to review later. "The only thing I see standing in the way of a good Hogwarts education for you is the looming presence of Sirius Black."   
  
"I'm not scared-" Harry started, eyes glittering.   
  
"Of course not," Florean soothed, "everyone knows you're the most Gryffindor Griffindor since old Godric slept in the tower."   
  
And didn't that stop young Potter in his tracks. He visibly shifted back, eyes darting between them. Someone needed to teach this boy not to give away his snap hand.   
  
"My point is, everyone's heard of your daring adventures Harry, and of course, they're all very impressed. But that's not a great way to get a good education. It seems awfully distracting, is all, to be constantly worried someone is going to kill you when all you should be focused on is really mastering your basic, foundational magic."   
  
Harry opened his mouth several times, to argue, she assumed, but couldn't seem to string the correct words together.    
  
Finally, "I don't go looking for trouble; I know what everyone says. It just shows up and drags me along with it!"   
  
"But of course it does!" Mrs. Fortescue said, "You're Harry Potter, you're a living legend. If trouble was going to find anyone, of course it would be you."   
  
"But I'm not! I'm just Harry! I've always been just Harry!"   
  
"Exactly," she nodded, he was making her point for her. "Trouble finds you because of your name, your story. As long as you are Harry Potter, you'll never have a normal life."   
  
Harry made a small noise, but didn't interrupt.   
  
"What we're offering, Harry, is a chance to get your magical education before you decide whether or not to be a living legend." Florean always knew how to cut to the heart of an issue. Sigrún looked at him warmly.   
  
"What's in it for you?" Harry asked, frowning. The Fortescues exchanged a glance. So the boy wasn't a  _ complete _ idiot.   
  



	9. In Which Harry Meets People He Has Already Met and a Few He Hasn't Yet

Remus wasn't pretending to sleep initially. He'd got to the train early to make certain he could claim an empty compartment, and it was after a full moon, and sometimes random unplanned naps happened. James used to tell people he was narcoleptic, which was so embarrassing, but was better than the truth.

But he made the choice, when confronted by tiny, crackling teen voices, not to “wake up.” He didn't really want to ruin their train ride any more than a random sleeping adult in their compartment already had. And honestly he was too tired to completely slip into his responsible adult persona after so long without practice.

And then, “Did you hear from Harry at all?” He desperately needed to hear their conversation.

“Not since his birthday. My present was returned! Have you ever had an owl return your post?” The little girl had obviously never tried to write a letter to a dead person. But then, she was young. There was plenty left to learn.

“Mine came back too. Mum says that can happen sometimes if someone is hidden by magic. If they're somewhere unplottable. She recons Dumbledore might be using extra precautions, what with Sirius Black.”

“Hmm,” was all the girl said, as though she were really considering this piece of information, turning it over to see if it had any flaws. “Well he’ll have to be at Hogwarts, even if he didn't ride the train. Dumbledore would never make him leave Hogwarts! It's the safest place in the wizarding world!”

The boy voice, a fuzzy red blob when Remus tried to get a look at him without actually opening his eyes, muttered something that sounded like “Basilisks, sure, safe,” but that couldn't have been it. Dumbledore would have told him if there were basilisks in the school.

Maybe.

***

The Fortescue dropped off two nervous looking girls, nearly identical to one another at King’s Cross Station. One in a neat skirt and blazer, clutching a straw boater to her chest, the other dressed in a long black scholar’s gown, like a tiny barrister.

Harry was just grateful Hogwarts uniforms were unisex, as he wouldn't relish the knee socks and tartan. Mostly he was just excited to be early this year after last year's absolute disaster of an entrance. Fortescues didn't fly to school, Mrs. Fortescue had pressed, as she helped him to shape himself into the role of her heir representation at Hogwarts. 

Fortescue didn't do a lot of things, though Harry had put his foot down when she said that he might perhaps be better served to choose an academic club rather than quidditch. Potters played quidditch. And Harry didn't think his flight style was so recognizable that everyone would instantly assume that he was Harry Potter in disguise.

Mrs. Fortescue took this with grace, told him that if he made the team, she’d send him a broomstick, but reminded him that first years weren't allowed to take one, and that it had been one hundred years since the last time a first year had been admitted to a team. Then she dropped the subject, moving past Harry’s stubborn jaw to the subject of charms club, and her time in the Hogwarts art society.

Harry climbed onto the nearly empty train and froze when he saw a three members of the Slytherin quidditch team chortling together in the corredor like they'd just done something horrible.

“Hi there dovey, what's your name?” A Slytherin chaser who had actually tried to kick Harry in the head once, did an awkward kind of half squat like he was trying not to tower over Harry. Which was just. Hilarious. 

“Fortescue,” Harry said, chin jutting and elbows ready for anything. 

Instead of mocking or laughing or cursing him, the three boys exchanged some kind of significant look and then lined up to shake his hand. 

“Hello Miss Fortescue, it's so lovely to meet you, I'm Miles.”

“I'm Terrence,”

“I’m Thomas.”

“Do you need help with your case?”

“Let's find you a compartment.”

Harry let his hand be shook, trying not to show on his face that he was feeling rather as if each of the boys had pulled out a herring and slapped him in the face with it. It would have made more sense.

When they started making off with his trunk, Harry almost protested, but he wasn't sure if the rules were the same in this upside-down land. Perhaps, if you weren't Harry Potter: Gryffindor Seeker, Slytherins would show you the same courtesy that Fred and George had showed Harry in his first year.

“Let's see,” said Thomas, peering into a few open compartments, “Here we go! Do you know Astoria Greengrass?”

Harry shook his head, still baffled to see a member of the Slytherin quidditch team smiling. He didn't even know they could smile. Smirk meanly, sure. 

“Miss Greengrass, may we present Miss Fortescue?” The girl in the compartment was clutching a massive book in a nervous way that reminded Harry painfully of first year Hermione. Harry might be nervous of his disguise, but he knew how to talk to Hermione. 

“Hello Astoria, I'm Fabergé, what are you reading?” He stuck out his hand, ignoring uncomfortable parallels to his own first train ride.

She pulled one hand off the book but made a pretty solid shake. “It's nice to meet you Fabergé,” she looked back to the three boys and didn't answer the question.

“Lovely,” Terrence broke in, “you’re friends already. Astoria be a doll and let Fabergé sit here with you?” He didn't wait for an answer before lugging Harry’s trunk up into the rack. 

Harry stood in the middle of the compartment, just watching, confused at the world while the boys made their goodbyes and promised to check up on them later. When they were finally gone, Harry sat down next to the window, gazing out to see who else was at the station.  Draco Malfoy was hugging his mother on the platform when Astoria broke in, “It's Hogwarts a History, but I wasn't reading it.”

“Huh?” Harry jerked around, almost forgetting who he was meant to be, “I mean, excuse me?”

“The book. My sister gave it to me.” He  _ knew _ her last name sounded familiar. What was her sister’s name.

“Oh?” Harry knew about siblings. It was impossible to say whether this was a positive or negative statement.

“It's a history book,” she continued, curling her lip slightly, “it's completely boring.”

Harry leaned forward to get a glimpse of the title, unsure if she would share. It was Hogwarts, A History. Harry wanted to laugh, but he was worried it would come out slightly hysterical.

“D’you not like reading then?” Harry could understand that. Compared to the magic of daily life in the Wizarding World, books, even magic books, just couldn't compare.

“Oh reading’s fine,” Astoria waved the hand that was not keeping a firm grasp on her book, “But if there’s no dragons, what's the point?” 

And how was it that Harry kept accidentally befriending people who were mad for dragons? How was this his life?

“I, er, I haven't read it, but I think there might be a Basilisk in there.” Had there been a Basilisk? Where had Hermione found the record of Slytherin’s monster?

Astoria frowned thoughtfully down at the book. “Only one Basilisk?” She asked, like this was not enough giant monster snakes.

“I mean, yeah. They're not really social, I think. Not really big on community.” Why did words keep coming out of his mouth? What was the end goal here?

They stayed in silence for a long moment, before Astoria began scouring the index to try to see if her sister’s book could possibly have interest to her. Harry sat back against the seat, fiddling with his new wand. His holly wood wand was too distinctive to take to Hogwarts, so Mrs. Fortescue had taken him down to her family vaults and let him choose an ancestral wand to borrow. The white, shiny aspen wood was almost shocking in his hand after two years casting with a familiar wand. What Harry really wanted was to learn some more magic. He wasn't really thrilled to start back in first year, but second chances didn't come around every day, and perhaps if he managed to land in Ravenclaw, he could convince an older student to let him practice with them.

The compartment door opened again. it was about two minutes to ten, and the train was about to leave. Someone was quite late. “Hello Astoria,” a familiar voice drawled, and Astoria looked up, calmly! 

Harry’s shoulders were somewhere near his eyebrows, which he instantly tried his best to smooth because, he reminded himself, Fabergé Fortescue had never met Draco Malfoy in her life. And, taking a look, he lowered his shoulders even more, because Harry Potter had never met a Draco Malfoy who was smiling, not smirking, but actual, pleased, curve-of-the-mouth  _ smiling _ at Astoria.

“I've brought a new friend for you,” Malfoy was saying, not sneering! Harry was just staring dumbly at this stranger until he stepped back and suddenly there was another girl in the compartment. She sat primly next to Astoria while Crabbe and Goyle brought in her trunk.

At least they were still the same and hadn't started spouting poetry or something. Malfoy was saying more words, potentially introducing this new person, but what did Harry know? He could be reciting potions ingredients for all Harry was listening, too caught up in his whole worldview being shifted. Who  _ were  _ these people? Why were they being so  _ nice _ ?

When they were left alone, Harry had to ask, “Sorry, what was your name again?”

“Scarlett.” She did not elaborate.

***

“Silence!” Remus ordered as a chill swept over the train.

He got a good look at the group in his compartment for the first time before he swept out with a rasped “I’m going to go talk to the conductor.”

The Hogwarts Express never stopped on the ride to Hogsmead. It was unheard of. There was absolutely no reason to do so. And the chill feeling of happiness leaching out of the corridors told him far too well what they had picked up. But surely no one in the ministry could think that sending Dementors to inspect school children could be a good idea. Sure, they were idiotic, but no one was  _ that _ stupid.

Except, apparently Fudge was. Which was a problem for future Remus. Present Remus made it to the front of the train with a few dozen quick strides, not stopping to check in on the students until he knew exactly what was going on.

The conductor was standing, white faced, at the front of the train. Tension radiating off her as she gripped her wand. She wasn’t quite in a ready stance, but she looked like she could go from zero to casting in about three seconds. Remus approved.

“What on earth is going on?” Remus asked.

“Ministry orders,” the conductor gritted out, “Dementor are permitted to search anywhere Sirius Black is liable to be.”

“But surely they could have done that after the children got off?” Subjecting school children to Dementors? Of all the nonsensical things. Sure, he was a mass murderer, but he didn’t  _ eat people’s souls. _

The conductor shook her head, “Dumbledore says we’re to comply with the ministry’s orders for now. Nothing I can do until they get through searching.”

“And how long will that be?”

“Until they find something, I imagine.” She runs one finger down her wand like she’d dearly like to catch a dementor “finding” something.

“Well, I don’t care what the ministry thinks it’s doing. Dementors can exacerbate trauma in children, and they didn’t commit any crimes. They can wait until the children are off the train before searching.” Remus wasn’t often stubborn, he liked to think, but there were some things that could not be borne.

The conductor nodded almost imperceptibly, as though she didn’t quite want him to see her do it. “Ask Agnes for- if you need anything. You’ll need chocolate yes, for the effects? She’ll give as much as you need for the children, we’ll invoice it to the ministry, yeah?”

Remus grinned, sudden and fierce. “Yeah.”


	10. In Which Slytherins are not Grubby

Harry lined up to be sorted a second time, possibly having secured a second life-long friendship. He couldn't say that Dementor aftercare was quite the same as troll fighting, but Scarlett and Astoria had come together to protect him after he had literally fainted, and apparently Astoria had known that chocolate was needed to restore him to vitality. Perhaps she had read about it while searching for dragons.

Still, he had two eleven year old girls standing fiercely on either side of him, ready to defend if he should be attacked again. Harry almost pitied Peeves if he tried to harass the first years again this year.

The line was a lot longer than it had been in Harry's first year, but as a "Fortescue" he was going near the beginning. Scarlett kept patting his elbow, so he supposed that some of his nerves at deceiving the sorting hat must be showing through.

"Fortescue, Fabergé," McGonagall called, and there was no pause, no stares, no whispers. Barely a polite interest. Harry was able to scurry up to the stool and sit-down without anyone repeating his name reverently to themselves. It was fantastic.

"Ah, back again Harry?" It was the first time he'd been addressed by name in weeks. 

"My my, but you have been up to some adventures.  I don't think I've seen a student as frequently as you in a couple hundred years!

Harry couldn't help but wonder if it were under quite the same circumstances. "Oh yes, quite." The hat answered his thoughts, "you'd be surprised how often students find it useful to go to school under different identities... No no, I shan't be telling any secrets. No, the sorting hat is bound to keep the thoughts of students under wraps."

Did that mean, was it possible?   
  
"It is not only possible, but probable! What a good joke, The- Boy-Who-Lived back at Hogwarts under everybody's nose. It'll keep the professors on their toes. They like to think they've seen everything, but I can assure you they have not."   
  
Harry smiled a bit at that. He could personally vouch that some teachers had not seen much of anything.   
  
"Now, a bit of advice if you really wish to go undetected" Harry's mind didn't quiet, exactly, but his focus intensified.   
  
"You'll never succeed in deceiving anyone if you meet their eyes straight on. There's a magic in direct eye contact. It will serve you particularly well to avoid the gaze of the headmaster, or the potions master."   
  
Harry remembered last year, in the Headmaster's office,  _ "Is there anything you wish to tell me?" _ He had felt like the Headmaster had looked right through him and seen everything.   
  
_ Is that all? _ Harry wondered.  _ Just avoid eye contact and they wouldn't know? _   
  
"Well, you'd be well served to learn to protect your mind. But that could take years without a proper tutor. Hmmm." The hat seemed to think for a bit. Harry had no idea how long this sorting was taking, but he could afford to stand out a little if it meant he had the tools necessary to succeed.   
  
Suddenly an image of a book appeared in his head. "Find this book. It'll be slow going, but you can learn to protect your mind from all but me. And who knows, maybe we'll meet again."   
  
And then, without so much as a token discussion, the sorting hat shouted "Slytherin!"   
  
It took Harry a good moment to take action, blinking stupidly as light flooded his eyes and Professor McGonagall shooed him off the stool.    
  
He should have realized that going undercover to attend school again would not land him in Gryffindor.   
  
It was going to be a long year.

***

Fred and George sat on either side of Ron, and did their level worst to cheer him up. "Maybe he was told that he's secretly half Djinn, and they whisked him off to Bengal before he accidentally started granting wishes." George mused.

"Have you ever wished for anything around Harry?" Fred asked.   
  
"What was his response?"   
  
"Did he flinch?"   
  
"Did it come true, only in the worst way possible"   
  
"He is missing!" Percy hissed, and for once Ron was grateful that Percy had absolutely no sense of humor.   
  
"He could have-" Fred started.   
  
"Have some respect and don't make Ron cry at the welcoming feast." Percy snapped.   
  
"Can we make him cry when he's  _ not _ at the welcome feast"   
  
"We weren't going to make him cry!" George blatantly lied.   
  
"Just stop." Percy scrubbed his entire arm across his eyes, apparently trying to wipe away the memory that he was related to sociopaths.   
  
Fred and George we're silent for approximately thirty seconds, then a tiny piece of parchment fluttered over to him. Ron picked up the parchment and shoved it straight into his mouth. Swallowing any more theories about his best friend's disappearance before he could read them. He should have sat by Neville when Hermione skipped the sorting.

***

The running dialog in Harry's head after he got sorted for the second time was something along the lines of "They know, they know, everyone is looking at me because they  _ know _ ."   
  
But in fact, no one was looking at him. He was at the beginning of the alphabet now, so Astoria and Scarlett hadn't been sorted yet, and everyone else had turned their attention politely to the next in line.   
  
Harry walked slowly down the side of the Slytherin table, eyes not meeting any of his new housemates, looking for a barren spot where he might not talk to anyone. When he found one, he looked up to see that it had been cleared apparently by a fifth year that he knew on sight, but couldn't recall ever learning the name of. She had a shiny prefect's badge, and the people on either side of the gap she had created we're wincing and rubbing at their shins.   
  
"Welcome!" She mouthed, and waited for him to sit. Harry hopped over the bench, and collapsed down onto it, a tense pile of ramrod limbs stuck in some approximation of a relaxed slouch. It would do him no favors to let his new housemates know that his whole brain was a series of flashing sirens drowning out the thoughtful hemming and hawing of the sorting hat.   
  
The hat shouted "Slytherin!" As it brushed Astoria's kinky curls, and the person to his left quickly jumped out of the way before the fifth year prefect could even draw back a foot, so Astoria came and sat gracefully next to Harry.   
  
"I told the sorting hat I wanted to meet Slytherin's Basilisk! Do you think it's kept near the common room?" Was the first thing Astoria whispered as she pretended to clap politely for the new Ravenclaw who was sorted after her.   
  
Harry mulled over how to break it to her that the monster was dead at his own hand before simply shrugging and hissing, "I bet there's loads of monsters lurking around this place. It's definitely too big to be housing just the students." Chances were that Hagrid had gotten  _ something _ new by now. He had a history. And Harry had an equal history of stumbling across such beasts.   
  
By the end of the sorting, a dull roar of whispered commentary had arisen from the bored students, made more noticeable by its sudden cut off after the last name had been read and the sorting hat vanished.   
  
Dumbledore stood and made his typically vague and disconcerting remarks about the new school year. Then he introduced the dementors.   
  
"The ministry has asked that we accept the dementors of Azkaban as our protectors this year, in the wake of the escape of Sirius Black, and the disappearance of Harry Potter." Harry, who had been staring up at Dumbledore for the length of this speech snapped his gaze down at the table with the abrupt remembrance of the Sorting Hat's warning. He was going to need to find that book sooner rather than later.

  
***

With the speed and acumen of a life-long educator, Minerva McGonagall identified the tell-tale sulfuric scent of recently exploded snap cards, and chose not to dignify them with any response other than an involuntary twitch of her delicate nose. The group of Aurors standing the anteroom off the side of the Great Hall hastily hid their smouldering piles as Professor McGonagall swept into the room. Amatures.   
  
"He’s not here," she said, none of the anti-glamour charms had revealed anything but the usual vanity of the upperclassmen. "I suppose we must consider that he really was kidnapped by Sirius Black."   
  
“We prepared for this.” Kingsley looked grim, but unsurprised. "Thank you for your time."   
  
"And the dementors?" Minerva raised her eyebrows, but refrained from making a dramatic moue of distaste.   
  
"Still the best guard for the children if Black is headed this way."   
  
"Surely he has what he wants. Why risk Hogwarts?" And why not slip past them as he had at Azkaban, she carefully did not ask.   
  
"We'll revisit the plan when there has been a sighting. We know he was headed this direction, who knows what he was thinking."   
  
Minerva pressed her lips together. "I see." It was going to be a long year.   
  
***   
  
Harry stood in front of a particular patch of bare Dungeon wall for the second time in his life.    
  
"Pureblood" the prefect intoned. Harry struggled to keep his face straight. Did they really  _ never _ change the password? How had Fred and George not taken shameless advantage? The female prefect, hurried them inside, and once again Harry was struck with the darkness of the inside of the common room. Harry had the impression that if a single, cheerful red cushion from the Gryffindor common room had found it's way down here, it would be murdered by the straight backed black leather chairs.    
  
'Welcome first years." The soft voice of a male prefect jerked Harry's attention from a particularly agonized looking silver candlestick, "You have passed your first test." One small titter from the first years, and some discreet coughing from the upper years. "Slytherin will be your home for the next seven years. It's triumphs are now your triumphs and it's failures are now your failures." The prefect scanned his audience, pinning them all with gimlet gaze. "Conversely, your failures are also Slytherin's failures, so failures will not be tolerated. If you have difficulty in class, you will be assigned a tutor. If you receive punishment for misbehaving, you will receive double punishment when you get back here. Some of the other houses express the sentiment that house is family, and that true in a way. You are here to honor your family. And we won't tolerate anything but the best from you. So shape up or get out." There was absolutely no humor in the prefect's gaze, which Harry thought was a bit rich coming from the house that had released a giant serpent to eat the school last year. He was pretty sure Malfoy acted out everyday of his life, but perhaps that was a special privilege of having a parent on the school board.   
  
"And on that exciting note," the girl prefect broke in, had she introduced herself? At any point? "We're also here to make sure you have a good time. Classes start tomorrow and I'll be directing you to the classrooms as it's quite easy to be lost. Be prepared to go to breakfast at eight o'clock sharp, we won't explain anymore while your sleep from the feast, but we'll discuss more expectations during the meal. Boys, your bedrooms are through the left hallway, there will be plaques on the doors. Girls, you're on the left. I'm headed that way now, so I'll show you around. Any questions?"   
  
"The bathroom?" A gangly boy asked with a bit of a squeak.   
  
"Gareth?" The girl prefect asked pointedly.   
  
"Follow me." The male prefect, well, _ Gareth _ apparently, looked offended at the concept of first years and bathrooms and Harry was frankly grateful he didn't have to go with him. 

When he had gone, the other prefect said, “Alright ladies, to the powder room. I know you're tired, but Slytherin girls are not grubby. I'm going to teach you your first bit of magic tonight.” With a mysterious smirk, she whirled around, robes flaring out in a pale imitation of professor Snape.

Harry looked to Astoria. Astoria looked back. They shrugged before following after. 


End file.
